


Something Called Living

by LadySilver



Series: Something Called Forever [1]
Category: Forever (TV), Highlander: The Raven, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Case Fic, Clan Denial, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Crossover, Crossovers by LS, Denial AU, Gen, Gift Fic, Identity Reveal, NaNoWriMo, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the morgues in all the world, Richie Ryan just had to wake up in Henry Morgan's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subcircus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subcircus/gifts).



> Happy Shortcuts, idontlikegravy!
> 
> This may be the story I've had the most fun writing _ever_. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
> 
>  
> 
> To anyone just joining us: This story is a Denial AU. Richie lives. Connor lives. _Forever_ wasn't canceled. Proceed as you will.

Richie's twenty year streak of not waking up from the dead in the morgue ended with a bang.

He awoke with the sudden thump of a heart that had lain dormant for too long and the gasp of air filling quiescent lungs. His whole body seized at the surge of life, then collapsed back onto the hard surface beneath him, exhausted. In the silence that followed—while his body relearned how to circulate blood and his nerves how to send and receive signals—he heard a second gasp and the clang of a metal tool hitting the floor.

Oh, god. He wasn't alone. He fought back a groan and instead tried to pull together any plausible explanation for why the tag he felt pinching his toe might have been put there in error. Catalepsy? Mistaken identity? Overworked coroner?

“Henry?” he heard someone call. A man, and not the same person who was in the room with him.

“One moment, Lucas,” his occupant answered, in one phrase identifying himself both as Henry and as someone who wasn't prone to screaming as a first reaction to dead people returning to life. Throwing another surprise at him, Henry hissed, “Don't move,” at Richie before slipping from the room.

Though it was technically moving, Richie allowed his eyes to open; he had to get his bearings if he was going to get out of here with minimal fuss. The bright lights assaulted his vision at the same time as the astringent chemical scent assaulted his nose and a chill shook his warming body. He was definitely in the morgue. Naked. He was in the morgue, naked, lying on the autopsy table. A quick slap down of his chest revealed that he'd probably awakened just in time to avoid being killed again through dissection. He'd never had to experience that particular horror, and he hoped to keep it that way.

Distantly, he heard Henry and the other guy, Lucas, talking, though he couldn't make out the words. For all he knew, Henry was telling him that one of their corpses was no longer dead. Richie had to get out there, but Henry's command stayed him. Never mind that without his clothes, he wouldn't be getting very far and there was no way he'd be able to scrounge up something to wear before Henry returned.

Time was, Richie would've taken any direct order and immediately defied it. He'd matured a little since then.

Mostly.

With a start, he recalled the last few minutes before his most recent death. He'd come downstairs early, planning to take some time before the dojo officially opened for the day to get his own workout in, when he'd caught sight of someone standing just to the right of the window, staring in through the bars. Had Richie been a little less attuned to the fact that someone was always Watching him, had he been a little less paranoid about people trying to kill him, had he been standing in a slightly different place on the mat, he'd never have noticed. The dojo was a new project, a page torn out of the Book of MacLeod because the storefront had been available, the rent as reasonable as New York City rents ever were, and Richie had seen enough of the neighborhood on his way through to know that the kids could use a place to hang out.

Though in a different city on the opposite coast, Richie felt a kinship to the neighborhood born of familiarity. He'd been missing Seacouver a lot lately. Since he was still decades away from being able to safely return there, he decided almost on a whim to set up shop here.

He was surreptitiously studying the stranger, trying to assess the level of threat—a potential customer would come into the building; a potential mugger might try to lure him outside; a random martial arts enthusiast would probably not be hiding in the corner, unless he was shy—when he heard the frantic thumping of feet descending the stairs. His own storefront was separated by a hallway and staircase from an identical one that was currently doing time as thrift store. The floors above were other businesses and apartments, one of which was Richie's. All of which someone was trying to hastily evacuate.

“Get out!” he heard the runner yell in a voice laden with the fear of someone who knows that whatever they're doing, it won't be enough. “Get out! Everyone out!”

It was a command he would have heeded if he'd been mortal. Maybe. Knowing that there were two more floors of offices upstairs and then the three floors of apartments above that, Richie dropped his jump rope, slammed through the hallway door, and raced upstairs to find anyone the caller's yell hadn't reached. At least a few of the residents had heard, and chosen to listen, because he had to push past a dozen or so neighbors whom he hadn't even been living amongst long enough to recognize on sight. The stairs creaked under the impact of all those feet, and for one moment at the top of the second landing, Richie feared that the whole staircase was going to collapse.

Then it didn't matter anymore. With a wash of heat as his only warning, the building blew up. A concussive force threw him back down the stairs. He was alive just long enough to see the flame rush at him, long enough to throw his arm over his eyes.

The door opened and Henry came back in, swiping his hands together with a satisfied air. He was a rough-shaven man, dark hair, in his late-30s. No Immortal signature marked him as a fellow player in the Game, nor could Richie get a clear look at either of the man's wrists to determine if he knew about the Game. That was going to be a problem. “There, that should keep Lucas occupied for a few minutes. I do hope he doesn't catch on to the fool's errand too quickly. Now, let's get you situated.” Crossing to a cabinet, he pulled out a bundle of cloth and tossed it to Richie while keeping his eyes carefully averted.

Richie accepted the sheet gratefully. He'd have preferred his own clothes or scrubs—Who was he kidding? He'd have preferred to not be in this situation at all.—but covering up wasn't really his biggest concern now, was it? “You don't seem very surprised,” he commented. His naked legs were stained black from the fire. A few unmarked streaks showed where he'd been burned badly enough that his skin had regenerated. Reaching down, he pulled off the tag that dangled from his toe and crumpled it.

“I assure you, I am very surprised,” Henry stated. “However, I'm not unaccustomed to encountering situations that have no easy explanation.” His lips creased in a private smile that quickly gave way to professional curiosity. “What interests me is that _you_ don't appear surprised.”

“I'm not,” Richie answered, simply. He pushed to his feet, pulling the sheet even more tightly around himself, and began prowling around the morgue. There were two other tables with covered bodies on them, waiting their turn, but no sign of any of his things. “My shoes didn't survive the explosion, did they? My jacket?” Henry shook his head and Richie scowled. At least he hadn't been carrying his sword; he left that in the office when he was at work—his office...that had been in the building that...”Shit! I'm going to have to leave town.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, felt the grime. “What time is it?” He couldn't see a clock anywhere.

Henry pulled out a pocket watch—an old one, if Richie's time working in the antique store had taught him anything—and answered, confirming Richie's hope that he'd only been dead a few hours. He heaved a grateful sigh; there were worse fates than waking up in the morgue, and he had to remember that if he was going to get through the next few hours. Any more time dead and he might have ended up getting buried. Thinking about how close he might have come sent a shudder through him; he'd never had to learn how to escape from a grave, and there were no other Immortals in New York City who knew about him since Connor had moved back to Europe a few years ago, and thus no one who'd know to come dig him up.

Richie loved New York City, and as much as he knew he'd have to leave someday, he hadn't expected that someday to come so soon after arriving. Being a permanent adolescent in a city of over eight million people was easier than anywhere else he'd ever lived. Maybe he could just move to a different borough to start over. It wasn't like he had much to take with him. Anymore. He could sneak back to his old building tonight and see if his sword had survived the explosion. The lockbox with his money and backup paperwork should also be OK. His bike would be a loss, as would all his clothes, unless the fire department had gotten the fire under control quickly.

“Do you have any clothes I could borrow?” Richie turned toward Henry so fast that the man stepped back. “And maybe a few bucks for a cab? Unless my wallet is around here somewhere?” As soon as he said it, he groaned. His wallet was in his desk. He'd been in the sweats and tank top he wore for working out, which left no place to put a wallet, nor any reason to carry one. “Never mind. I didn't have a wallet on me.” He raked a hand over his head; he'd been growing his hair out in hopes of sneaking another year or two onto the identity by starting younger, and the water- and soot-stiffened curls felt so much like they had the last time he'd died in public that for a moment he forgot where he was.

“Your clothes are in evidence,” Henry answered. “I'm sure I can come up with some others, though I can't guarantee that they'll fit. I'd also suggest a shower. But I'm afraid that I can't let you leave.”

“Why not?” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how Henry planned to _keep_ Richie from leaving. He bit the question back, not wanting to turn the situation antagonistic.

Henry's head was tilted and he was watching Richie, studying him in a way that made Richie feel a lot more self-conscious than being naked in front of this stranger had. “For starters, you're a material witness in a crime. The only witness, I might add.” He gestured at the other bodies. “No one else that we know of survived the explosion.”

Richie let his eyes drop closed for a moment in silent acknowledgment of the life lost. He didn't know who else had been in the building, but he knew that the toll was a lot higher than two. The other bodies were probably in the drawers or in cold storage somewhere. If the signs of damage to his own body was any indication, some of the other victims might even become permanent residents here because there wasn't enough left to identify.

“No one else escaped?” he asked, thinking of the person who'd sounded the warning and the others he'd seen on his way up the stairs. Some of them had to have been close enough to the door when the building blew up to have made it out.

Henry sighed the sigh of someone who knew that what he was about to say had no good interpretation. “We presume that everyone who made it outside before the explosion also managed to disappear into the woodwork. People in that part of town aren't fond of talking to the police.”

Richie nodded, well aware of both the attitude and the causes that spurned it. “Can you blame them? Half the people who live there have probably been arrested at some point. Or have reason to think they're going to be.” He certainly did. At least his own juvie record hadn't followed him to this life. But that didn't put him in the clear. The fact that he could easily get caught killing someone was never far from his mind after the way Martin Hyde had set him up all those years ago.

“Of course not.” Henry rubbed a thumb over his eyebrow. The gesture bared his wrist and revealed only unmarked skin. “Having their testimonies would make the investigation easier. Without them, we're limited to what we can learn from those who didn't survive.” He shot a knowing look at Richie. It was a look that carried a lot of weight.

“What if I told you that I didn't see anything?” Richie asked, grasping for the one out left to him.

“Did you?”

“No,” Richie said. It wasn't a lie, though it felt like one. Hoping to change the subject before Henry could prod him on it, Richie asked, “How long until that Lucas guy comes back? You said a few minutes....”

Henry gave a little start as if he'd forgotten that they could be interrupted any second. “Right. Yes, we can't have him seeing you looking...so alive.” He took in the empty exam table that Richie had been on. “And I'd better move one of these other patient people to the head of the line. Lucas will wonder how I finished with you so quickly, otherwise.”

“Yeah, not unless you're planning to tell him that the corpse got up and walked out.” Such a confession was always a possibility.

The private smile flashed across Henry's face again. “Your secret's safe with me. There's a locker room down the hall with showers. If you're careful, you should be able to make it without anyone else seeing you. Locker ten holds the Lost and Found. Anything of use you find in there, you can take. I'd recommend that you not go through the personal lockers—”

“I'm not a thief,” Richie interjected. Right now. He had been one before and he'd probably be one again—live long enough and all manner of skills had their uses. And their needs.

“My apologies,” Henry offered with a tip of his head. “I hope you'll come back after you make yourself presentable. I would dearly love to talk to you about what happened.”

“For the police report, right?” Richie knew full well that that wasn't what Henry meant.

Henry's response was only a lifting of his brows.

“Yeah, right.” Richie sighed. Without making any promises, he added: “Maybe.”

* * *

The shower gave Richie time to think. He watched the ash, soot, and blood run down the drain in gray and pink eddies and felt himself become more human by the second. No matter what else happened, he had to go recover his sword. A city the size of New York wasn't a safe place for an Immortal to walk around without his weapon, no matter what kind of legacy Connor had left behind. After that, he needed to find something to eat and a place to crash for the night. Reviving always left him starving and exhausted.

In the morning, he could try to scrounge up some cash. He cast his mind around, trying to remember where his other Immortal friends were living these days, and what names they were going under. He came up blank. He'd only been in the City a few weeks, himself, not even long enough to get used to his new name.

Then he had to worry about this Henry guy. The man was too smart, too observant. If Richie went back to talk to him, Henry would ask all the questions that Richie really didn't want to answer. Immortals worked hard to keep knowledge of themselves out of the regular world.

On the other hand, broke, homeless, and stranded in a new city, Richie really could use an ally.

The water was running clear now, so Richie accepted its offering of heat into his beleaguered muscles a few moments longer, then shut it off. He used the sheet as a towel, doing his best to avoid rubbing the dirtiest parts over his newly cleaned skin, then went to see what he could find in locker ten.

What he found was a pair of gray sweatpants that were so old and ratty that they had to have been “lost” on purpose. He also found a neon green muscle shirt and a pair of flip-flops that almost fit. He eyed the selection for a moment, then grabbed a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Thank god it wasn't winter yet, and that no one he knew would see him dressed like this.

Despite Henry's admonition and his own rejection of the label, Richie also riffled through the handful of personal lockers that didn't have locks on them. Tucked in the corner of one woman's jean's pocket, he found a folded ten dollar bill and took it. He wasn't a thief, but he needed the money right now if he was going to get across town. Making note of the locker number, he vowed to pay her back as soon as he could.

Now that he was clean and...not wearing a sheet...he moved to address his other needs. A survey of the floor yielded the employee lounge, in which he found a box with a couple stale donuts left over from the morning and a Keurig. This, he justified to himself, wasn't thieving because they were here for anyone to eat, so he did, wolfing down the donuts so fast that he nearly choked himself on inhaled crumbs.

He was still doubled over, coughing, trying to clear his lungs when a pair of sneakers appeared in his field of vision.

“Um, hello?” their owner said.

Richie waved, both to fend off any would-be help and to acknowledge that he'd heard the speaker and was unable to answer.

“Not that I’m not digging your personal style, but I’m pretty sure it’s not casual Friday. Who are you?”

Through streaming eyes, Richie took in the speaker. Light brown hair, narrow face, tall, in blue scrubs over a black shirt. Not Henry, and certainly not bearing the quiet confidence that Henry had. “Ignore me,” he gasped out. “Just swallowed wrong.”

“Are you sure?,” the man asked. He took a couple steps closer, hovering anxiously. He pointed to the coffee cup. “Is that the Jet Fuel brand? Better watch out. I swear I had acid for a week after one cup.” His face lit up, a little overeager. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You new here?”

Richie coughed the last of the crumbs into his hand, glanced at the now unappealing bite of donut that remained, and pitched it all into the garbage. “Oh. Yeah. I'm, uh...” He cast about for an excuse, and his eyes settled on the cup of coffee that had just finished brewing. “I just came down to get some coffee for the, uh, boss. I'm the intern.”

“An intern? Don’t you guys have your own machine upstairs?”

“Yeah. The boss… really likes that Jet Fuel stuff.” Richie cringed at the lack of finesse to his lies. He was usually a lot suaver than this. Straightening up, he grabbed the coffee and a handful of creamer and sugar packets. “I'd better get this upstairs before the boss flips out.”

“Hey, I totally get it. My boss gets crazy, too, all, ‘no Lucas, I will not drink tea made in a _machine_.’” He mimicked spitting something out, face scrunched up. 

Ah, so this was the Lucas from before. “Yeah, haha,” Richie said. “Bosses.” Keep it vague; let the listener hear what he wanted to hear; get out of the situation as quickly as possible. He'd learned all this shuttling through the foster care system, and yet it was still tempting to embellish the details. He started for the door and had almost made it when Lucas spoke again.

“Hey, but seriously, why are you dressed like that? Some prank on the new guy?”

Lucas really wasn't going to let it go, was he? Richie glanced down at his outfit-of-discards that were too mismatched to even pass off as a dress down day. He looked like a college student who'd just rolled out of bed five minutes before the start of his key final exam, not an intern in a city office. He opened his mouth to snap off a witty comeback, and his brain mutinously refused to supply one. “Look,” he managed, “I really have to go before the boss notices I’m gone and, yeah.” He lurched toward the door and its promise of escape.

“Hey!” Lucas stepped in front of him, and Richie dodged to the right, grateful for his trained reflexes. At least they still worked. 

His plastic-clad feet slipped on the Linoleum floor as he scrambled past, a quickly thrown out hand all that kept him from careening into a wall. The sugar packets flew from his grip. He didn’t stop to pick them up.

“You forgot your coffee!” Lucas called after him.


	2. Chapter 2

One of the things that Richie loved about New York City was that no one cared how he looked. He'd been hoping to capitalize on that when he moved here. Since leaving Seacouver, he hadn't been able to live in any one place for more than three or four years before his youthful appearance caught up with him. Here, he hoped, he might be able to push for five or six years. Maybe more, if he planned carefully about what parts of the city to live in. He'd never be able to put down roots in a place, not like Mac or Methos or any of the other Immortals who could live fifteen, twenty years in an identity before needing to move on, but maybe he could stay long enough to not feel like a stranger.

He found a bus that would take him in the direction of his neighborhood and boarded it without so much as an askance look from the driver. He had something resembling a shirt on his chest, something resembling shoes on his feet, and enough money to cover the fare.

The bus dropped him off a half dozen blocks from his building, which meant he had to walk. The night air was cool, raising a chill on his arms, and the streets busy enough that he didn't have to worry about another Immortal surprising him. Even so, he kept himself alert, noting the entrances to alleys and the proximity of all the myriad storefront churches that seemed to spring up in buildings that had outlived their commercial use. Several times, he had to stop to let the blisters on his feet heal.

He smelled the disaster first. The acrid reek of burned wood and plastic hung heavy in the air and he slowed his pace, wanting to drag out those last inevitable moments before he had to face the reality of the loss of his home. Turning the corner, he saw it: the husk of the old building. Its windows were gone, their glass littering the sidewalk in chunks that glimmered under the yellow glow of the street lamps. The shards would have been pretty were it not for what they meant.

For a long moment he stood, taking it in. The explosion had really happened. Everything he owned was gone.

Ignoring the glass—his feet would heal from that, too—he pushed past the crime scene tape and stepped through the empty frame where the front door used to be. There were no lights inside save what filtered in from the street, which meant he had to rely on what little spatial memory he'd been developing as he navigated the wreckage of the interior. The ceilings and walls still stood, which he assumed meant that the explosion itself had been on the top floors and the resulting fire had destroyed everything else. It was hard to breathe. Noxious fumes filled the air and everything he touched was either soaking wet or still smoldering.

Eventually, he worked his way to where his office had been. The door was gone, probably fallen to the floor or burned away entirely, and the rest of the room was swallowed in darkness. Feeling dizzy, but not about to quit now, he went in. With shuffling steps he pushed through the debris, burning his toes, his fingers until he found the remains of the wall where his sword hung. Leaving it there had been a compromise that allowed the weapon to be nearby without being in reach of eager and naive hands who knew about the dangers of guns but not blades.

Richie could too well remember being a teenager in a world before he knew about Immortals, and how he viewed swords and sword fighting as unutterably _cool_ , and also so antiquated that he couldn't conceive of swords being weapons in exactly the same way, and for exactly the same purpose, as the switchblade he sometimes kept in his pocket or the handguns that so many of his friends kept in their waistbands. Ironically, it had only taken two shots to the chest for him to start to appreciate how much more deadly swords could be.

He found it, the hilt joining his hand as if it had been searching for him, too. The metal was warm, but didn't feel warped or damaged in the cursory pat down he was able to give it. His relief at being armed again was so immense that he almost passed out again right there. Of everything he'd owned, his sword was the one thing he had no way to replace. Holding it close, he resumed looking for the lockbox.

It wasn't there, not in the remains of the desk nor on the sodden bookshelves where trophies from past competitions had been melted into heaps. Someone else must have gotten to it first, maybe one of the police officers or a firefighter? He groaned and gave serious consideration to letting the fumes overtake him. Only the thought of waking up in Henry's morgue _again_ kept him moving. He could come back in the morning, he decided, to make a more thorough search by the light of the day.

As soon as he made it back outside, he cleared a patch of cement in front of the wall and sank down to catch his breath.

The night had settled down hard while Richie had been inside the remains of the building. The street was as quiet as he'd ever seen it, everyone who had a place to go having decided to go there. In the apartments across from him, he saw a few lights, a few shadows of movement as people crossed in front of their windows, but even the music and shreds of arguments that always seemed to spring up when the sun went down were absent. People were laying low, staying quiet: A reaction to the police presence from earlier, respect for their dead neighbors, fear that they could be next.

Richie sat with his sword cradled across his lap and stared out into that silence. He'd had to change lives a few times since becoming Immortal, but never like this. Never as the result of everything he'd built being yanked out from under him. He'd come close in Paris when he died in front of everyone during his first big race all those years ago. It had been devastating, but ultimately all he'd done was return to Seacouver and pick up his old life where it had left off. This was the first time he didn't have an old life to return to, the first time he would be moving to the next one without any semblance of moving forward, or any safety-net to fall back on.

The crunch of footsteps on glass drew his attention to the man approaching him. The swirl of a long coat set him on guard and he tightened his grip on the hilt of the sword, though he didn't stand up. The man came to a stop in front of Richie, positioned so that the street light illuminated an already familiar face.

“It's not necessary to leave,” Henry stated. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he held the coat tight around him, making Richie aware for the first time that the night was cooler than he'd thought. “I thought I'd find you here.” When Richie didn't say anything, he continued. “We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Dr. Henry Morgan.” He wasn't close enough to offer his hand for a shake, so he gave a short bow instead. The gesture had an antiquated flare that reminded Richie strongly of Mac.

“Richie.” He didn't offer a last name because he didn't know which one to use.

Henry acknowledged his name with a tip of his chin. “Well, Richie. As I was saying, I believe your plans to leave are a bit premature.”

“I died,” Richie reminded him. The words were clipped, bitter. “I can't exactly stay here.”

Henry drew a breath and cast his gaze up and down the street, taking in the dilapidated buildings, graffiti, and garbage strewn gutters. He didn't give away what he thought of what he saw, but the knot of his tie and hard creases of his collar, the quality of his coat, and the cut of his hair indicated to Richie a man who couldn't imagine why anyone would choose to live here. That he was about to explain why Richie could stay didn't matter. Richie felt himself growing preemptively defensive and he struggled to his feet so that when he had to defend his choices, he could at least be on an equal level. He was almost knocked back over when Henry said, “None of them saw you.”

For a moment, Richie thought that Henry was referencing his earlier comment about witnesses staying quiet, but Henry continued his explanation with all the calm recitation of someone who'd given a great deal of thought to the topic.

“Everyone in the building died. Everyone who made it out was worried only about themselves and their families. Any recollection they have about who was inside and who wasn't can only be supported by the evidence, and since you're clearly not dead, they'll have to assume you made it out. The only people who know differently are the firefighters who carried your body out and the paramedics who transported you downtown, and I can guarantee that they won't recognize you whole and with a pulse.”

Hearing it put like that, Richie slumped back against the wall. The last time he'd ended up in the morgue, he'd died in front of thousands of witnesses. Somehow it had never occurred to him that two disasters didn't go hand-in-hand. No one had seen him die. People might look at him and see a miracle, but not the kind he was afraid of them seeing.

“No one saw anything,” Henry repeated, as if he needed to convince Richie of that truth.

Richie started to nod, then realized that the truth wasn't that simple. Someone had been watching, hadn't they? Two someones, in fact. There'd been a man staring in the window at him right before the explosion. Had that man known what was about to happen? Had he wanted to see it happen to him? It seemed more than possible, but even Richie's enhanced Immortal memory couldn't be relied on to dredge up enough identifying details for a police sketch. And that assumed that a sketch would be worth anything.

Then there was the other person. He scanned the shadows along the doorways and the edges of the buildings searching for the one person who wasn't likely to be there, and the one person who was. Seeing neither, it occurred to him that the explosion had claimed both of them as victims, after all.

“The other people who were killed,” he started, only continuing after Henry indicated that he was listening. “Was one of them a black woman, about twenty-five?” He didn't know her name because they'd never met; he wasn't supposed to know she existed. “She'd have a tattoo on the inside of her wrist.”

“What did the tattoo look like?”

Richie described it as best he could. He'd only seen the design a few times, but some things were hard to forget. He knew she wore one. He'd sought its presence out on purpose after he'd caught her following him around. As soon as he knew for sure who she was, he'd forced himself to stop seeing her and to get on with living his life as if she wasn't there keeping notes.

Henry frowned in thought, then shook his head. “I don't recall anyone with that tattoo. Who is she? Your girlfriend?”

Richie took a second to bask in the news. “No.”

“Does she have something to do with the explosion?”

“Not that I know of,” Richie answered, honestly. “Scratch that. She didn't have anything to do with this. It's not her style.” Unless she was a very different person than he thought she was. And if that turned out to be true, Joe's retirement wouldn't keep anyone safe. Joe. Richie's head snapped up as the first spark of hope lit him. He had to find a phone. His own was somewhere in the burned out desk, but he thought he remembered seeing a payphone in one of the bodegas he'd passed on his walk. He only hoped it still worked; Joe didn't change identities, had never changed phone numbers, and might just be able to tell him how to get in contact with one of the other Immortals in the city—as long as he wasn't Hunting them, and right now playing the Game was the last thing Richie wanted to do. “Thank you for helping me.” He offered as much of a smile as he could feel. “I have to go take care of some things.”

Henry hurried after him. “You're going to walk down the street carrying that sword?” He sounded alarmed.

Richie glanced down at blade swinging by his side. “Bastard.”

“What?”

“The sword. It's a Gothic Bastard.”

“No doubt a treasured heirloom, which is why you went back to dig it out of the rubble. However, do you really think that walking around openly with it is a good idea? What if someone calls the police?”

That pulled Richie up short. He normally kept the sword in his coat, as all Immortals did, and didn't bother with what the police thought. Oddly enough, the recent spread of concealed and open carry laws only covered guns. There was no such thing as a sword permit. However, if there was a secret to concealing a sword in a muscle shirt, no one had bothered to teach it to him. “I'm not leaving it behind.”

“No, I wouldn't expect you to. Perhaps you'll let me carry it for you?” He gestured down the length of the coat he was wearing. It wouldn't have the built in sheath that an Immortal's coat did, but it was definitely long enough to make a decent temporary cover.

“Why?”

Henry clapped a hand on Richie's shoulder and turned him so they were face to face. “I'm hoping that if I help you, you'll help me.”

“You've already helped me,” Richie pointed out. “Waking up in the morgue sucks bad enough without having to sneak around town in a sheet.” His eyes narrowed in realization that he was incurring debts that he really didn't want to pay off. Immortals had always made a point to keep themselves hidden from mortals, and so far Richie had managed to go decades without changing that.

“That does beg the question: where were you planning to sneak to? You were living in that building, yes?”

With a shrug that freed his arm, Richie started back down the sidewalk. “Look, I just wanna make a phone call. This has been an amazingly awful day, and the sooner I can get it over with, the better.”

Reaching into his pocket, Henry pulled out a cell phone and held it out for Richie to take. “You can use mine. Don't worry about any long distance charges.” His brow furrowed as if he thought he'd said something wrong, but he recovered quickly. “I hope you know how to use one of these. I had to get it for work, and so far I haven't mastered more than learning to answer it.”

“Yeah, I know how to use a cell phone,” he sniped, without making any move to take it. The offer was tempting. He'd been planning to call Joe collect—contingent on the pay phone working at all—with the assumption that whomever answered at the bar would accept the charges. Barring that, the small collection of change in his pocket might be enough to get a couple minutes of call time.

“You can delete the number as soon as you're done with the call,” Henry added with a sigh. “It's my understanding that that's easy to do, though I haven't had reason to try it for myself.”

Reluctantly, Richie handed over his sword. Henry accepted it, checked its weight and balance like he knew how to handle swords, and tucked it inside his coat. With his arm canted across his body like he'd injured it, he anchored the sword into place. The phone switched hands next. Richie keyed in the number, heard the rings, counted to himself as they passed. Voice mail. “Damn!” He left a message, keeping it vague but putting as much urgency into what he did say as possible. “Call me back as soon as you can,” he concluded, “And, don't worry, I'm not going to lose my head over this.” There, that should give Joe some idea what was going on. Between that and his Watcher's report, Joe might even refrain from bludgeoning him with his Oath.

“Try again later,” Henry suggested gently.

“Sure,” Richie agreed.

“In the meantime, I haven't had a chance to eat dinner. Would you care to join me? My treat.”

Richie thought about refusing, but he really did need more than a stale donut. By using Henry's phone, he'd also tethered himself to the man until Joe called back. And he'd handed over his sword, too. Goddamn, did dying make him stupid. On top of all that, what was one more stupid thing? Glancing around to make sure there were no prying ears, he said, “I'm Immortal. That's what you really want to know, right?” He splayed his hands in a silent “there it is,” and internally braced himself for the fallout.

Henry blinked hard and gave him the once over that came of seeing someone with new eyes. “Then, why was there a body...”

“I can die,” Richie said, mistaking the direction of Henry's question. The man had seen him come back from the dead; what more proof did he want? “Obviously. It's just not permanent. Or fun.” He racked his fingers through his too-long curls, the hat having fallen off somewhere in the building, and chided himself again on his poor choices.

Once more, Henry glanced up and down the street. It remained quiet, but they both knew that could change at any second. “If you don't object, I suggest we adjourn to someplace private. I took a cab here. It's right down the street with the meter running. The cabbie is probably wondering if I'm planning to return. Shall we ease the poor man's mind?” He moved as if to start walking away, then thought better of it. “I think we have some things to talk about.”

Getting in cars with strangers was supposed to be the worst kind of stupid. Especially strangers who picked you up on the street and offered free food. A last glance at the wreckage of his home told him that he really had no choice. Richie shrugged. What could happen? It wasn't like he could get killed. “Why not?”

“Very good,” Henry responded. He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the way, and nearly dropped the sword.

As they were approaching the cab, Richie decided to return a little of the aid he'd been given. “You'll want to sit on the driver's side.”

“You have a preference?”

“Nah. It's just that it's easier to slip the sword between the seats and the door than it is to stab it through the cushions. Cheaper, too.”

In the bright headlights from the cab, Richie couldn't miss the shocked expression on Henry's face; the look of someone who thought he had it all figured out discovering that he was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

They made the trip to Henry's in silence, by mutual agreement that the biggest topics should be saved for when they could both give their full attention and when no one else was listening, and the smaller topics weren't worth the waste of air. For once, the traffic cooperated and the trip passed without any hitches.

Only as they were walking into his building, the sword once again tucked into his coat, did Henry say, “I'm sorry; I should have thought to tell you sooner: I don't live alone.”

Richie's brows shot up. “Yeah, you should have mentioned that before now. That's what we call 'useful information.' What do you have? A wife? Kids?” He tried to picture Henry as a family man with a brood of dark-haired children climbing up his knees, and found that the image came easily. Yeah, he should have anticipated that their 'private' discussion would not be entirely alone.

Henry's mouth curled into an indulgent smile, yet a darkening in his eyes hinted at a deeper pain. Richie recognized the look of someone who had lost a loved one and who still wasn't able to think about them without pain. “Let me introduce you. For what it's worth, I trust him completely.”

He led the way inside and gave Richie a moment to take in the well-appointed apartment. It was the kind of place that had been lived in for a long time by someone with expensive tastes and the pocket book to indulge them. The eye that Richie had developed as a thief noted several antiques on display that would be worth a small fortune to the right buyers. He let out a low whistle in appreciation, and kept his hands to himself.

“Where would you like this?” Henry asked, handing over the sword as if he had complete trust that the stranger he'd just brought into his home wouldn't do any harm, even when given a weapon. It was a pact, of sorts, and Richie accepted it.

A glance over the room for likely hiding places revealed plenty of options. He could keep the sword next to him, on display and within easy reach, but his instinct for concealing it made that unappealing. He also didn't want to scare Henry's family, as he suspected that he'd be appealing to their generosity over the next few hours. Footsteps from the other room hastened his decision; he slipped the sword under the couch and spun around, hoping that he'd become good enough at this kind of subterfuge to keep the guilt off his face.

The person who entered was an older man, maybe ten years Joe's senior with graying hair and a bulbous nose. He had on beige slacks, an argyle sweater, and a pair of red oven mitts. “Henry? I did hear you come in. I was just putting—” He stopped on seeing Richie, a sweep of his eyes taking in the atrocious outfit and turning back to Henry with the unspoken question about why the person wearing it was here.

Henry clapped a hand on Richie's back, urging him forward and demonstrating the trust he'd extended in private. “Abe, this is Richie. He's a witness in a case I'm working on and he's in need of a place to stay for a few days.”

“The police are asking you to keep track of the witnesses now?” Abe asked.

“Richie's a special situation,” Henry explained. “Let's just say that I've taken the initiative.”

“They don't know he's here, do they?”

Henry's gaze dipped in awareness of his rule breaking. Awareness, but not shame, Richie noted.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Abe pulled off the oven mitts and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Richie. I'm Henry's room—”

“—Son,” Henry supplied. “Abe is my son.”

Abe intoned Henry's name like a warning and Henry challenged him back with the kind of glare that fathers gave their recalcitrant children, that MacLeod had hit Richie with a million times during that first year Richie lived with him and a few thousand times after, and Richie knew that he was hearing the truth.

He continued the handshake and the rest of the pleasantry because there was no reason not to, then stepped back and took a long, hard look at Henry. By admitting that Abe was his son, Henry had revealed that he was also older than he looked, and there was only one explanation for that that Richie knew of: immortality.

Immortals didn't show their age in the lines of their faces; that was half the point. Richie well knew the difficulty of judging someone's inside age based on their outside age. He'd also been around Immortals long enough, and had been one long enough, to start to recognize some of the more subtle ways that age showed: the favoring of a posture or gestures that people their apparent age didn't use, anachronistic manners or speech patterns, the flash of bafflement when confronted with a particularly modern attitude or expectation. He'd seen the way Henry had handled the sword. The bow of greeting. The phone. He'd caught all the clues, and simply hadn't put them together.

Because he couldn't _feel_ Henry. Immortals had always been able to sense others of their kind. Without it, the Game would be an exercise in stealth and assassination, and the only protection would be complete seclusion. The mere thought of an Immortal who didn't advertise his Presence made Richie's stomach tie itself in a hard knot, his mouth go dry. He'd hated having to learn to kill the others, but he hated more the helplessness of not having the chance to try.

“How?” he asked, dropping bonelessly onto the couch.

“Abe, would you be so kind as to get Richie some decent clothes. I think I have some that will fit him. And put together a couple plates. Neither of us have had a chance to eat dinner.”

Richie didn't hear how Abe responded or if Henry said anything else to him. The next thing he knew, Henry was squatting on the floor next to him, pressing a glass of water into his hand. “It was a shock to me too the first time I met someone else like me. Take some deep breaths; fainting won't do either of us any favors. I assure you, I am immortal, just like you are.”

Richie shook his head, frustrated because Henry was talking about the wrong things. “No, you're not, you can't be...” He gulped for a breath, then sought to center himself like during a battle, when not being in control would only get himself killed. It took a minute, and Henry gave it to him.

“I was shot,” Henry explained. He opened up enough buttons on his shirt to reveal the pucker of scar tissue over his heart where the bullet had entered. No one could have survived what caused that wound; _Richie_ certainly hadn't. “I died. I came back. That was...a long time ago.” He said the last like he was withholding the number because he thought it would be too unbelievable. “I haven't aged a day since.”

Richie nodded along. He knew the shtick. He just didn't know how Henry didn't register a Presence. Rubbing his hands over his face, he debated how to bring this up to Joe. Maybe the Watchers had records of this kind of thing. Maybe Methos would know—though getting a straight answer out of him was never a sure thing

Henry stood up and stepped away. When he came back a moment later, he presented Richie with a selection of photographs. Old ones, showing an unaging face through time. “This is all the proof I can provide right now, besides my word.” In his tone, Richie heard the eagerness of someone desperate to be understood. Someone who was desperate for a person who _could_ understand, fully and completely. Hadn’t this guy ever had a teacher? No sooner did he think the question than Richie had the answer: of course he didn’t; if no one could feel him, then no one would know what he was. “When I die,” Henry continued, “my body vanishes. I'm reborn in water.”

Richie’s head jerked up in surprise. _That_ was different. “Water? Like some kind of baptism? You mean you're not just...dead?”

“I know it's hard to accept,” Henry stated. “Your resurrection was certainly more dramatic than what happens to me.”

It didn't sound like it, but Richie wasn't going to argue the point. He shuffled through the pictures, though he didn't need to. The oldest one was of Henry and a blonde woman and a baby. The woman's hairstyle dated the picture to the 1940s. He could do the math. He also knew that the oldest picture wasn't the oldest _possible_ picture. “I believe you,” he said, handing the photos back. “You've obviously been around for a long time.” As one of the youngest in the Game, he'd had to learn to estimate the ages of his potential opponents based on their tells; knowing whether he going against someone with fifty years more experience than he had or fifty times more might be all that saved him. Reviewing what he'd observed, he said, “That's Abe in the pictures, isn't it? The baby? You only keep them around because they're important to him.” At Henry's nod, he continued, “I'd guess...you're older than a century but not ancient.”

“Abe has accused me of personally knowing the dinosaurs,” Henry responded with a short laugh.

“I think all kids say that about their parents.” Richie took a sip of water, then a longer swig when the first one didn't taste like anything it shouldn't. “I don't think you're that old. Two, maybe three centuries?”

A look of surprise crossed Henry's face. “You don't think multiple centuries is old?”

“I've known a few people who were older.” A _lot_ older, he thought. So much older that he couldn't conceptualize what their lifespans even meant. Before Henry could ask about that, Richie pressed on with his real question, “Why can't I feel you?” He touched the back of his head where the sense of another Immortal started like a block of ice being dragged down his spine.

“What do you mean? Is there something wrong with your sense of touch? Are you suffering residual nerve damage from the fire? I can only imagine the trauma your body must have undergone regenerating as it did—”

Richie stopped him with a gesture. “Are you saying that you can't feel me, either?” He didn't know if that was a relief. Being completely insensate to other Immortals would be a liability that Henry would have to keep secret or he'd be taken out by the first headhunter who found out. It might be enough to keep him out of the Game entirely. Again, he touched the back of his neck, hoping the physicality would help Henry understand what he meant.

Instead of answering, Henry stood up, crossed over to the sideboard, and poured himself a drink. He hesitated a second, then poured a second one, which he brought over and set on the coffee table in front of Richie. “I assume you're also somewhat older than you appear?” he asked, with a nod toward the glass.

“Well, I'm still a few years shy of a century...” Richie cracked his first smile since the explosion, then decided to answer the question fairly. “Yeah, I'm old enough. I just turned forty-one.”

Nodding, Henry continued, “I'd like to hear your story. Or, if you prefer, I'll tell you mine, first.” He swallowed back his drink and thumped the empty onto the table, then settled into the chair next to Richie. “I'm beginning to suspect that our respective immortalities aren't the same at all.”

As much as he wanted the offered drink, Richie decided to stick with the water. His stomach chose that moment to remind him of one reason that was a good call. “Did you say Abe was going to bring in some food?”

“I asked him to wait in the kitchen until I got you settled. He knows my secret, but yours isn't mine to tell.”

Did telling a mortal about Immortals count if they already had one in their life? “Probably be easier if we did,” Richie suggested. “It'll be better if he hears it straight up than puts together the pieces on his own.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“If it'll get me a square meal, I'll tell anybody anything right now.”

Abe had to have been listening at the door because Richie had barely finished speaking when he came into the living room with three plates balanced on his arm like he was channeling his inner waiter. With a flourish, he set one in front of Henry, one in front of Richie, and the third in front of the empty seat on the couch. “Dinner is served!”

“You are welcome to join us,” Henry suggested, his tone drier than dust. “I'd say we should eat at the table like adults, but since we're only going to end up here again, we can save ourselves a few steps.”

From his pocket, Abe produced the silverware and began distributing it. “That sounds like a good plan. There's plenty more food in the kitchen, if anyone wants seconds.” His chore done, he lowered himself into the empty seat, yet stayed leaning forward in anticipation of whatever it was he thought Henry wanted to talk about.

“While we eat, we can bring you up to speed on the case. It's a very exciting one.”

“The case?” Abe asked, his eager expression dimming.

Richie had cut off a huge bite of the stuffed chicken breast and shoved it into his mouth. Still chewing, he decided to have his own fun. To Henry, he said, “Actually, I'd like to know what you think happened. The official story, ya know? I mean, I remember the explosion, but then I was dead for most of the afternoon. Did I miss anything good?” Shoving another bite in his mouth, he started counting silently until Abe worked through what he'd said.

It took almost twenty seconds before Abe started opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, and another ten before he looked to Henry for confirmation that he'd heard correctly. When he finally spoke, all he could manage was one word: “Dead?”

“Hm?” Henry inquired, as if he hadn't been paying attention. “Did I not mention that Richie's story is also going to be long?”

* * *

Richie expected to be unable to sleep. After everything that had happened, he figured he'd be lying awake on the couch all night with his thoughts tumbling through his head like debris in a tornado. Any sleep would have to be fitful and riddled with nightmares, especially because the couch was leather and had buttons in the cushions that all sought to press into his back. He accepted the proffered pillow and blanket gratefully, curled up, and prepared himself for a night of staring at the wall.

Within seconds of the light going out, he followed. He was still sound asleep hours later when the trilling of a ringtone he didn't recognize sounded right next to his head. Why couldn't people turn off their ringers when someone was trying to sleep? He waited, growing crosser in the half-awareness where all he wanted was to roll back over, then finally grabbed the phone. “What?” he snapped.

There was a beat of silence, then a tentative, “Richie? It's Joe.”

Richie sat up, scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Sorry, Joe. You woke me up. What time is it?” Idly, he reached under the couch, feeling relief when he found his sword. If he'd had any lingering doubts about Henry's intentions, they were gone now.

“A little after 9:30 for you. I called as soon as I got your message. What's going on?”

“Ugh,” Richie groaned. Telling the whole story over again suddenly felt like way too much effort. He, Henry, and Abe had been up later than any of them wanted to be the night before, talking. It had taken some effort to convince Abe that Richie was, in fact, Immortal. Claiming to being forty in a nineteen-year old body just didn't have the cachet that being over two hundred in a thirty-five year old body did. Eventually, with Henry vouching for what he'd seen in the morgue, Abe decided to accept Richie's assertion, and then discussion had turned to the explosion itself and the incredible nothing the police had to go on.

“Are you OK?” Joe pressed. “It sounded like an emergency, or I would have waited until later in the day to call back.” He sounded more tired than Richie still felt, and Richie realized that it was 6:30 in the morning for him, a man who kept bar hours. That meant that he'd probably been awake all night.

“It was an emergency.” Richie rubbed his face again, dragged his hand back through his hair. He bent over the phone, careful to keep his voice down so that he didn't disturb his hosts. “Now it's just a crisis. I died. Lost everything.”

Joe pushed out a breath through his teeth; he knew what that meant as well as any mortal could. “Did anyone see you?”

“Turns out I might be OK there,” Richie answered. “Look, I called because I need to know if there are any other Immortals in the city.”

“Richie, you know I can't—”

“Dammit, Joe. This isn't...business.” He stumbled over the word, using it because he hadn't told Henry and Abe everything. “I'm not looking for trouble. I just need a place to lay low for a few days while I figure out what to do next. Someone I can trust who won't try to come after me.”

Joe was silent for a moment, then Richie heard the clatter of keys as Joe began typing. “Before I tell you anything, you swear you aren't headhunting?”

“I'm not that guy anymore. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Joe answered, softly, indulgently like a parent talking about his son's recovery from drug addiction. “What happened, exactly?”

Richie frowned; Joe didn't usually need to ask those types of questions unless he thought there might be a discrepancy in the information. “Didn't you see the report?”

“I only look at the reports that have been flagged for special interest, these days,” Joe reminded him. “Terminal reports. Headhunters. Public Challenges that need to be hushed up. Nothing about you has shown up in the alerts.”

That was…odd. Richie knew his Watcher was still pretty green, but if she'd been allowed to go out in the field at all, it was because she'd proven her ability to do her job. He wondered what her reason was for withholding the information on the fire and his death. What did she know that he didn't?

More keys clattered, and Joe muttered his way through a few search screens, his own late night making him slower to find the relevant information. Not wanting to interrupt and derail him, Richie refrained from pointing out that he hadn't answered the question. At last Joe said, “OK, here's a guy. Friend of Amanda's. He relocated to New York about a year ago.”

“What kind of friend?” Richie's thoughts immediately jumped to any of Amanda's criminal buddies who popped up whenever they wanted help to steal something. “I don't need a safe cracker or...or a stick up man,” he added, thinking specifically of Cory, who had a way of taking any situation and turning it into a clusterfuck.

Joe let out a bark of laughter. “Not that kind. Turns out she keeps company with a lot of interesting people. You want the info, or not?”

Well, he'd asked. If Joe was willing to part with it, he must have reason to think that it wouldn't affect the Game. “Yeah, I do.”

Joe told him, and Richie immediately understood why Joe hadn't put up more of a fight. “Thanks.” He was moving his thumb toward the end call button when another thought hit him. “One more thing: Do you guys have a record of someone named Henry Morgan?”

“That's the owner of the phone you're using?” At Richie's stunned silence, Joe said, “You're losing your touch, kid. Caller ID?”

Richie knocked the heel of his hand against his forehead, unable to believe that he'd missed such an obvious detail. “OK, I deserve that one. Yeah, that's the guy.”

“Lemme check. He Immortal?”

Now that was a tough question to answer. On the one hand, the mission of the Watchers was to record the histories of all the long-lived people who'd witnessed and shaped so much of history. On the other, the reason they were doing that was because of the Game and the fact that some day there wouldn't be any more Immortals left to tell their own stories. Based on what he'd said last night, Henry wasn't going to have that problem. Remembering how Henry had protected _his_ secret, Richie decided to return the courtesy; he could always change his mind later if he needed to. “He's not one of us,” Richie said, opting for a version of the truth.

“Then why would you think he'd be in the system?” Joe asked, sounding both confused and a little put out.

“I'm just covering my bases, Joe. A guy's gotta know whose phone he's borrowing, ya know?”

Joe didn't know. He didn't understand Richie's reasoning at all, which was fine because Richie wasn't trying to explain clearly. “Then you'll be happy to know that we've got nothing on him.”

“Appreciate it.” He hesitated, a part of him not wanting to hang up, to break the connection with a familiar voice and a person he'd been friends with for more than twenty years. There was something else nagging at him, too, something that he couldn't quite pin down. “Call me at this number if anything else comes up, OK?” He waited for the agreement, hung up. Sitting with his legs splayed, he cradled the phone for awhile as if the screen would tell him anything he didn't already know. In the end, he stood up without deleting the call from the call log and headed into the kitchen in search of breakfast.


	4. Chapter 4

To his surprise, Henry was sitting at the kitchen table. The newspaper was spread open in front of him and a half-drunk cup of coffee sat off to the side, which explained why Richie hadn't heard him moving around. He looked up when Richie came in and gestured toward the oven. “There's a plate of sausage and eggs in there, if you're hungry. Coffee's on the counter, and there's cream in the refrigerator. I've already eaten.”

“Aren't you supposed to be at work?”

“I took the day off. I thought someone should be here when you woke up.” It sounded thoughtful, but Henry could also mean that he didn't trust Richie not to rob him blind or to get out of Dodge without leaving a forwarding address. It was ironically comforting to see Henry take such a basic precaution given that he didn't know how dangerous Richie was.

Richie pulled out the plate and sat down opposite Henry. The newspaper filled the table between them, its sections carefully folded with the meticulousness of someone who read every word of the news. “If I didn't believe you were two hundred before, I do now,” Richie quipped, nodding at the display. He started in on the plate while waiting to see if Henry would take offense at his comment. He didn't, and Richie smiled to himself. He liked being able to be open with someone else about ages. He had taken that freedom for granted when he lived in Seacouver, and it hadn't been much of an option since he finally left, as his opportunities for talking to other Immortals largely consisted of trash talk about who was going to behead whom. “Listen, I hate to impose any more than I already have, but if you could spot me a few bucks for the subway, I'd appreciate it. I need to go see someone. I can pay you back later today.”

“I'll come with you,” Henry announced.

Ah, Richie thought, Henry was afraid of Richie vanishing before he could get his witness statement. Considering that Richie had as much said he was going to do that, it was hard to blame him. “Are you sure? I'm getting pretty good at not getting lost.”

A wicked spark flashed in Henry's eye. “Someone of your tender years could get hurt,” he quipped back. “I wouldn't want to be held responsible for that.”

“Funny, old man. Very funny.” He dropped into silence after that, turning his focus to the plate. His body still craved calories from the amount of regeneration it had done, and now that he wasn't running on adrenaline, it had decided to collect.

Only later, after he'd showered and changed into a borrowed pair of jeans that hung loosely on him and a button down shirt that stretched across shoulders that were muscled from years of weapons training, did he discover that the camaraderie with Henry was still going to take a lot of work. He collected his sword, realized that he still had no place to put it. “Could I, uh, also borrow your coat? Or another one like it, if you have one?”

Henry flipped a hat onto his head and looked askance at the sword. “Why don't you leave that here? An antique that valuable shouldn't be taken on public transport.”

Richie glanced down at the sword, wishing yet again that he had that option. “I can't. I need it with me.”

“Why?”

God, how he hated having to talk about this part. For a moment, he toyed with letting Henry think that the sword was some kind of very sharp security blanket. People carried guns for the illusion of safety; why not three and half feet of steel? With a slight shake of his head, he shut down that train of thought. He didn't want to start lying now. “Remember how I said that I knew other Immortals? There are a lot of us out there, and most of us...are not friends.”

Henry's expression darkened. “Why do you need the sword?” he asked again, his voice even darker. He suspected the answer, and didn't like it.

“In case I have to kill them,” Richie answered.

Henry went still, his understanding of who this stranger was and what he was capable of undergoing a visible shift. “How? You're immortal. I saw it myself. If a fire that covers eighty percent of one’s body in burns isn't enough damage to keep you down, what is?”

“The kind of damage that can be inflicted with one of these,” Richie replied, hefting the blade so that the morning sunlight streaming in the window glimmered off the fine beveling of the steel. “Please don't ask for me to be more specific.”

“You've done this? Killed other people?”

“Yes,” Richie admitted.

“But only in self-defense?”

Richie didn't look away. He wanted to, but if Henry was going to understand what Richie's kind of Immortality was, he had to know about the ugly side, too. “No.”

Henry blanched, looked like he was going to be sick. Regret for everything he'd done to help settled over him. He shrugged out of his coat and threw it at Richie, who put it on and made the sword disappear inside as only an Immortal could. The coat still wasn't tailored for the job, but Richie'd had a lot more practice than Henry did.

“You still want to come with me?” Richie asked.

From the way Henry stalked as he shepherded him out the door, Richie suspected that the next time he let him out of sight, it would only be because the police were dragging him away.

The sidewalks thrummed with people despite the lateness of the morning. Clear skies and a temperature warm enough that people could actively appreciate it before the descent into winter cast a general good mood over the pedestrians that only made Richie's altercation with Henry more pronounced.

They were passing a gyro restaurant when Henry bumped up next to Richie. “I met someone else like me. He tried to make me kill him, and I didn't,” he stated, as if Richie should have chosen the same way. “I'm not a killer.”

I am, Richie thought. “It's not the same thing,” he said, instead. Then, realizing what Henry had implied, he asked, “You can be killed permanently?”

“Not yet.” Henry clipped off the words; he had nothing more to say on that subject.

Richie didn't press. If he wasn't willing to share his vulnerability, he couldn't demand that Henry share his.

They dodged around a group of people who were hovering in front of an electronics store, admiring whatever new item was on sale that week, then turned at the next corner. The entrance to the subway stop sat in front of them. With each step toward it, Richie felt his options narrowing. He could still disappear into the crowd, slip away into a store or alley. Once they descended into the subway tunnels, that would become harder and harder as they were funneled into increasingly confined spaces.

They started down the stairs. A series of posters on the walls exhorting people to join the Armed Forces caught Richie's eye, and an idea came to him. “You ever been in a war?” he asked, knowing that there was no way Henry hadn't. Anyone who'd lived as long as he had would've have their pick of wars to join. Based on the quality of his accent, Richie suspected that Henry had been raised to be soldier.

“Yes,” Henry said. His shoulders hunched in as he remembered the atrocities he'd witnessed, an all too familiar pose.

“Think of it like that, like we're at war with each other.”

Henry looked for a second like he was going to argue, then he turned away, mulling the thought over.

In silence, Richie studied the map and figured out what train they needed, then turned his attention to observing the other people waiting on the platform so that he didn't have to see what judgment Henry was going to pass. Business people on their way to lunch. College students on their way to or from their universities. Mothers with strollers. Fathers with their children's hands clenched tight in their own. Unconsciously, he began searching for the familiar face of his Watcher. She had to be lurking in the crowd somewhere, yet Richie saw no sign of the familiar silhouette.

The train came, and Richie and Henry boarded. Despite the crowd on the platform, the car was mostly empty, only a dozen other people spaced around the seats and the poles. The sword in his coat would make sitting awkward, so Richie found a place to stand as far from anyone else as he could. Henry started for a seat, but swerved when he saw that Richie hadn't and came to stand next to him.

“It must be very lonely,” Henry murmured, “to know that there are others you can relate to and yet have them out of reach.”

Richie kept his eyes on the doors. Through the windows, he saw the other platforms and the tunnel walls zooming by. Not once did he catch even the faintest sense of another Immortal. “It's not that simple. We can form truces, cease-fires. I do have friends like me. I had a teacher; he's somewhere in Europe right now. Either that or Scotland.” Saying it, he saw how much better his situation had been than Henry's. Richie'd had someone to explain what he was, someone to teach him how to survive. He still had people who could understand his experiences and help him solve the problems that arose. “I didn't have to go through this alone.”

Henry shifted, gearing up to ask another question when his phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he handed it straight to Richie. “It's for you.”

The caller could only be one person. “Two calls in one day, Joe?” Richie asked, by way of answering. “To what do I owe the honor?”

From across the country, over a phone signal that was roughened from its travels, came an answer Richie never thought he'd hear: “Your Watcher is missing.”

“What?”

“I got suspicious about the lack of alerts, so I went looking. She missed her check-ins last night and this morning, and isn't answering her phone or her email.”

Missing? And Joe was telling _him_? “Have you tried the hospitals? She might have been injured.” The other people in the car were studiously not paying any attention to him, except for an old woman near the door who was giving Richie the stink eye. He imagined that she didn't approve of him being on his phone at all. He flashed her an “it's out of my hands” look, then turned away so that she couldn't lip read him. For all he knew, she might be a Watcher, too. Or worse.

“Already checked them. There's no one with her name or matching her description. We're working on the morgues now. That one's trickier. You didn't tell me about the explosion.”

“I didn't think I had to,” Richie answered. “Isn't it your job to know these things? You're the one with eyes everywhere.”

“Touché, kid.”

“More importantly, what do you want me to do about it?” The Watchers had to have encountered situations like this before. Knowing them, they probably had lots of very thick books laying out the rules for dealing with Watchers who had gone missing.

“Absolutely nothing. No, take that back. Until we learn more, there is one thing you can do.”

Joe didn't have to say it. If he hadn't been standing on public transport, Richie'd have said it for him. He might even have been sarcastic about it. “You know I always do,” he answered, and heard Joe's grunt of acknowledgment. Richie hung up, and for all of half a second debated whether a well-meaning, but ultimately useless, phrase like “Watch your head” was worth listening to. The train screeched to a stop at the next station, the doors whooshed open, and Richie once again did what he'd done best his whole life. “Change of plans,” he informed Henry. “I have someone to find.”

* * *

In the bright midday light, Richie's old building looked even worse. The water that had doused the fire had left a soggy, sodden lump of half-collapsed brick and burned wood that it hadn't been enough to wash away. It was hard to look at it and not see the ghosts of the people who'd died and the dreams they'd lost.

Across the street were brownstones that now looked strong and welcoming, by comparison. Richie studied them all for several minutes, comparing what he saw now to where he'd seen lights the previous night, checking angles, visualizing where a person might stand to see without being seen. Finally, he selected the building slightly catty-corner from where his studio had been. “There,” he said, pointing to a window that was mostly taken up by a mounted air-conditioning unit and obscured the rest of the way with a drape.

“What gives you reason to think that this person saw anything?” Henry asked. On the way over, Richie explained that he had a lead on another witness, one with far fewer secrets than he had.

“Is that why you're so reluctant to aid the case,” Henry had asked, “because you want to avoid police scrutiny?”

“Wouldn't you be?” Richie sighed. “My identity here isn't very solid. I wasn't expecting to need more than the paperwork it takes to get a business license and a rental. So, yeah not wanting anyone to look too closely at me is definitely a consideration.”

Henry nodded. No matter what the differences were in how their immortalities worked, they still had the fact of long lives and un-aging faces in common, and the commensurate problems. “But it wasn't the only one, was it?”

“You,” Richie'd said, jabbing a finger at him, “are too astute.”

At the compliment, a flash of embarrassment passed over Henry's face. “Are you willing to tell me?”

“It might make more sense if I showed you,” Richie answered. He thought about it, then amended, “Or it won't. It still doesn't make a lot of sense to me.”

At the door of the house, Richie rattled the locked door knob, verified that he was going to have to break the door down. “The other thing that doesn't make a lot of sense,” he said to Henry, “is why I care. You wouldn't happen to have a ball point pen on you?”

Henry did. He handed it over, then politely turned his back so that he didn't have to see Richie picking the lock.

Richie led the way inside, then up to the apartment he'd selected. He picked that lock, too.

The apartment they found was two rooms with stained white walls and worn beige carpet. A futon mattress was thrown on the floor and the garbage can was stuffed with fast food wrappers. This was a place that was being used for camping, not living. The reason for it became obvious when they saw the setup in front of the window: a chair, a rolling cart with a laptop, a set of binoculars, and two telescopes. One telescope was aimed in the direction of Richie's studio, the other toward where his apartment window would have been.

“You have a stalker?” Henry asked, reaching the obvious conclusion.

“That's what I keep saying! Except they call themselves Watchers—that's with a capital W—and they're scary organized. They have records on my kind going back thousands of years. Mostly, though, they're harmless. 'Observe and record, but never interfere,'” he stated, mocking the Oath. “As it happens, my Watcher is missing. That's what the phone call on the train was about.”

While Henry looked through the telescopes and determined what the viewer could have seen, Richie opened the laptop and began scrolling through the final notes.

“And look at this,” he announced. “It turns out she not only saw the explosion, but she went down to try to help people. Never interfere, my ass.” A note captured his eye and he scrolled back some more. She'd been a careful record keeper, noting dates, times, and details without letting her opinions color what she saw. One particular detail had raised a flag that she'd started keeping track of in a second log. “Huh. It looks like I did have a stalker. A real one. Some guy's been hanging around outside the studio since I moved in, keeping track of me.” Abruptly, he remembered the stranger he'd seen through the studio window before the explosion.

“Stalking is often prompted by a desire for a relationship with the target, usually romantic or sexual,” Henry volunteered. “The stalker may believe that he has a relationship with the target and is seeking reciprocation.” He tapped his chin, thinking. “It could also be motivated by a desire for revenge or justice, with the stalker believing that the target has deliberately wronged him.” A raised eyebrow at Richie indicated that Henry thought the latter was the more likely choice.

Richie threw his hands up defensively. “Hey, I didn't ask for this, either.”

“Conscription,” Henry muttered, as if that was all that needed to be said. Louder, in a question meant for Richie, he asked, “Do you think this second stalker knows that you're—” The rest of the question was bitten off as he straightened up suddenly.

Richie slammed the laptop shut and whirled around, following where Henry's attention had gone. Every alarm in his body was going off, except the most important one.

A man stood in the doorway with a gun pointed at them. He was stocky with thinning brown hair and cheeks that had been reddened from heat. In jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a black windbreaker, he looked like he'd swung by the apartment to grab a hostage on his way home from a day at the park. Richie recognized him immediately as the peeper he'd seen the previous day.

“Knows you're what?” the man demanded. He stepped into the room, shifting the gun back and forth between Richie and Henry like he couldn't decide whom to shoot first. His hand was shaking, though his voice was hard. He thought he was in control, but he didn't know if he could do what was necessary to keep that power. “Don't stop talking on my account. See, I been trying to figger out what's so special about you. I asked _her_. I asked her and she wouldn't say nothing.”

Her. His Watcher. The man must have caught up with her in the chaos of the explosion. He'd better not have hurt her. Pushing his concern aside, Richie focused on getting out of this situation without killing the idiot who had created it. This man might be the only person who knew where the Watcher was.

“Man, you don't want to do this.” Richie raised his hands into surrender position while adjusting his weight so that he could throw himself out of the line of fire faster. Getting shot _hurt_.

“Put the gun down and let's discuss this like reasonable men,” Henry added.

“Don't think so,” the man stated. “See, I got some guesses, and right now I'm thinking Witness Protection. You in Witness Protection?” He aimed the question right at Richie. “I bet I could get some smart money for turning you in.”

Richie frowned, trying to make sense of the accusation. _Witness Protection?_ Why would this man think that...a person with no apparent history who was under constant surveillance and who mostly kept to himself would be a person of interest who was supposed to be in hiding and who had attracted the wrong kind of attention. It suddenly seemed so obvious that Richie couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it himself. He started to laugh, choked it back before it got him killed. “What if I am?”

Henry threw him a questioning look: _What are you doing?_

The man grinned like he'd been vindicated. “I knew it! Knew you wasn't famous cause I never heard of you and this—” He gestured at the telescope setup— “Ain't the way paparazzi do things.”

“What do you want?” Henry asked.

Turning even redder, the man roared, “Shut up! I dunno who you are and I don't care, so shut up! All you gotta do is follow directions.” His eyes narrowed like he'd been struck with a great idea, and he again brought his focus to bear on Richie. “Do what I say, or I'll kill him.”

What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Richie stood, stunned, while out of the corner of his eye he could see Henry trying not to grin. “Yeah, I don't think that's going to work the way you think it will,” he finally managed. It was getting harder and harder to keep a straight face; he felt his eyes beginning to water from the effort. If they didn't do something to change the scene soon, he was going to break down. “So, are we just going to stand here, or what?”

The man had clearly not thought through what he was going to do after he caught Richie. He shuffled from one foot to the other, dropped the barrel of the gun and jerked it back up again.

“Perhaps you should take us to the police,” Henry suggested. “You do have a car, yes? We could all walk quietly outside and get in your car.”

“Outside, yes,” the man answered, happy to latch onto a plan, no matter how thinly constructed. “Not the police. They'll ask too many questions. I got a different idea.”

With the gun on Henry and Richie ostensibly a cooperative hostage, he led them down the stairs. “You still ain't told me what you done,” he man said. “You rat out someone important?”

“Nah,” Richie answered. “I just have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Henry’s mouth tighten with a bitten back laugh since he had now witnessed the truth of Richie’s statement no fewer than three times in less than a day.


	5. Chapter 5

Richie wasn't waiting until they were outside, though having enough room to swing a sword would be nice. He wasn't waiting until they were secluded, though the need to have fights away from onlookers was drilled into him. And he wasn't waiting until he and Henry worked out some kind of secret plan, because he didn't need the help. He was waiting for the right moment, though.

As a group, they left the building and headed down the street to one of the wide alleys that bisected the block. The chain link gate that was supposed to prevent people from going into the alley had been ripped down some time before and bags of rotting garbage were now piled against the rusting metal like that's what it had been meant for. Farther down, an overflowing Dumpster sat amidst another pile of garbage bags, wooden pallets, and broken crates.

“That way,” the man said, giving Henry a push forward with the barrel of the gun.

Henry and Richie spared a glance at each other; going into alleys with armed nutcases was how people got killed.

“Uh-uh,” Richie said with a shake of his head. “Your car's not down there. We agreed to go to your car.”

“Car's on the other end,” the man promised. “This way's fastest.”

“And has fewer witnesses,” Henry pointed out.

On the next stoop, a trio of teenage girls dressed in tight jeans and spangled shirts sat clustered with their heads together. Two men in construction overalls and hard hats argued outside the pawnshop. Another man in jeans and a thread-bare brown blazer stood smoking a cigarette and idly watching the sparse traffic. Behind them, a homeless woman trundled past. Her clothes were thickly layered and shabby and she kept her head down, hands working in front of her like she was trying to finger-weave the air.

“You try to yell for help and I'll shoot your friend,” the man reminded Richie.

Richie saw what he had been waiting for, and stopped trying to stall. “Okay, fine. I'll go. Just...don't do anything.” It was so hard to sound frightened when all the threats were toothless. To aid the charade, he pulled on his memories of his first death, when he still believed he was a regular mortal and he _knew_ that the mugger was seconds away from ending his life. The tremor that came into his voice must have been enough because they started moving again.

In a few steps they reached the Dumpster. A few more would take them out of sight of anyone on the street.

“She told me you wasn't nobody,” the man suddenly said. “She told me, she said she was studyin' for her PI license and practicing on you because where her window was. I knew she was lyin'.”

With a small shrug, Richie responded, “Wouldn't know. I've never met her before.”

“Now you're lyin'.”

“I'm not, but believe what you want to. It's a free country.” Richie whirled around then and hit the man's gun arm with his forearm, then twisted the man's hand until the gun fell loose. Hooking his leg behind the man's ankle, he destabilized him and sent him crashing to the alley floor. The man's head bounced hard off the asphalt. Richie dropped down and grabbed him in a wrist hold that either required its victim to stay still or to dislocate his elbow. “Even so, I think you should tell me where she is.”

“Richie, he's hurt.” Henry crouched and began probing the man's head, trying to assess the injury without moving him. All the man could do was blink at the sky.

“That's not my problem. He shouldn't have tried to capture us. Have I mentioned how much I _hate_ being used as bait?”

Henry's fingers paused and he looked critically at Richie. “He needs medical attention. We need to get him to a hospital.”

“Not until he tells me where—” The fact that he didn't know his Watcher's name had just become a problem. He put an extra bit of pressure on the man's wrist and got back the expected grunt of pain. “Where is she?”

The man's lips moved, formed a soundless word. _Safe_.

Good enough. Richie backed up so that Henry could work. Like it or not, they were going to have to call an ambulance, unless one was already on the way. He figured one had been called the second they stepped into the alley. The police were probably right behind it. Some of the people outside would have understood exactly what they were seeing, and who the winner would be.

A small pool of blood was spreading out from under the man's head; he'd hit hard enough to break the skin, and doubtlessly to give himself a massive headache, but he was still conscious. Still tracking. His other hand flapped across his stomach as if testing for a different injury. He found what he was looking for at his side. With a speed that belied his head injury, he pulled out the knife that had been secreted at his waist, plunged it into Henry's stomach, and yanked.

In the commotion of Henry's yell, the man lumbered to his feet and staggered down the alley. The back of his head was damp with blood and he ran like a man who couldn't quite see where he was going. Catching him would be easy, but Richie decided to let him go.

Instead, he caught Henry as he swayed and helped him move for support against the wall.

“Stop him,” Henry gasped. “Don't worry about me.” Henry's shirt had already turned red and the handle of the knife stuck out from the center of the stain like a pin on a butterfly display. Despite knowing better, Richie waited for a sign that the wound was already starting to heal, like his would have. With each second that passed without getting it, he had a tick of doubt that Henry was really immortal. Wouldn't that be a hell of a way to find out that he'd been scammed?

“He's not going to get very far,” Richie said. Henry gave a deep groan of pain that also conveyed a dubious note. “Remember how I said that the Watchers were scary organized? I saw at least two on the way here. It's better to let them handle him.”

Distantly, they heard an ambulance siren. It might not have been coming their way, but Richie knew that his luck didn't work like that.

“Damn,” Henry uttered. “Stomach wounds. One of the most painful ways to die, you know, when stomach acid gets into the body cavity...assuming he hit any vital organs...if he didn't...” He trailed off. Without a formal assessment, it was still obvious that a normal recovery could take weeks, barring any complications. Weeks, and a lot of questions.

Richie closed his eyes, trying to decide if the offer he wanted to make was tacky or generous. The siren was getting closer and Henry wasn't dying very fast. _Screw it_ , he thought, then: “Do you want me to kill you?”

“God, yes. Would you?” Henry grasped the knife and yanked it out with a second yell that would have attracted rubberneckers in wealthier neighborhoods. It was a small blade, about three inches long, with a serrated edge. One like it could be purchased at any camping store. Fresh blood welled up in the now-empty wound and Henry's knees buckled. “Stab me in the heart.”

Richie took the knife, ignoring the wetness on it, and flipped it around, trying to get his hand familiar with this blade. It was too small, too light. All the years he'd spent training with a sword and he was stymied by a blade smaller than the width of his hand. “I don't know how to kill with this.” Gut a fish; sure, he could do that. Strip a tree branch. Core an apple. Not do a clean kill on the first try. A sudden image sprang to mind of him kneeling over Henry's body, stabbing and stabbing while the paramedics rolled into the alley. _Don't worry,_ he imagined himself saying to the EMTs, _as soon as I finish killing him, he'll be fine._

Henry tried to press his fingers to the place on his chest where the knife needed to puncture, but his hands were shaking too much; there was too much blood.

“What about a gunshot?” Richie asked, his gaze alighting on the weapon that had brought them here. He _had_ spent some time at the target range; it had only taken one late night argument with Methos to convince him of the merits of shooting Immortals to shut them up.

“Yes, good. Much easier.”

Richie risked letting go of Henry long enough to sweep up the gun. The safety was already off. They were both lucky that the man hadn't shot them by accident. “You're sure?”

Henry gave a fluttering nod, his face tight.

Positioning the gun against Henry's heart, Richie took a deep breath, steeling himself, then pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He tried again, got another click. It was empty. “It's empty! The asshole didn't even have it loaded!”

They heard a whoop from the ambulance warning someone to get out of the way.

With hard fought for words, Henry instructed, “Use...what...you know.” He dragged his gaze up to meet Richie's, and in the effort, Richie saw that Henry had figured out his vulnerability.

Richie swallowed hard. Henry was asking to be beheaded—the one method of killing that left no margin for error, as even a partial decapitation was still fatal. In Richie's world, it was absolutely fatal, even for people who called themselves Immortal. And it was what Richie knew. God, did he know it. Last chance, no going back. If Henry hadn't been above-board about his immortality, or if he was wrong about how it worked, Richie would kill him permanently.

“Do it. No time.”

He was right; Henry was right. They only had a couple minutes, maybe less, and then it would be too late to do anything at all. “Kneel down,” he said, helping Henry follow the instruction.

“Wait,” Henry gasped.

For a second, Richie thought that this was it; this was the moment when Henry would reveal that it had all been a send-up. The pictures had been faked, the history invented. It was some kind of charade to get him to drop his guard, and now the Hunters were going to swoop in. But Henry hadn't hesitated at being stabbed or shot; if that wasn't conviction, Richie didn't know what was.

With the kind of careful movements of someone who had to concentrate to make his body obey, Henry emptied his pockets. He handed over his wallet and his pocket watch and directed Richie to pull off his shoes. Then he told Richie where to meet him afterward, and gave his final nod of assent.

Richie freed his sword and stepped back. He set his stance. Raised the blade. Swung.

Henry's body tumbled over and his head hit the ground with a sick crunch.

Over the next few seconds, Richie braced himself for the Quickening that his instincts told him would be coming, listened to the ambulance draw ever closer, and watched Henry's body finish its death throes while remaining stubbornly _there_ with only one thought in his head: How the fuck was he going to explain this to Abe?

Just as the ambulance screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley, Henry's body vanished, and with it most of the physical evidence for what had transpired. Handy, that. Only the blood from the stalker remained, and without him, the ambulance and the police had nothing. A flood of relief washing over him greater than any he'd ever felt, Richie scooped up the shoes and ran for it.

Several blocks away, he hailed a cab. A block after that, he pulled out Henry's phone. Abe's number wasn't in the contacts—Henry presumably had it memorized and never felt the need to enter it—and Richie didn't know who else was safe to call. That only left one option, and as the cab inched its way through a traffic jam, he buckled and called it.

* * *

He arrived at the river to see Henry sitting, dressed, on one of the benches that decorated the river walk. A dark-haired, leather-jacket clad stranger sat next to him, leaning in to hear something that Henry was saying. The man straightened up as Richie approached, then stiffened when their Presences came into contact.

Henry watched as the two Immortals drew together, wary, cautious, each moving with the control of people who have honed their bodies into weapons.

“Richie Ryan,” he introduced, holding out his hand.

“Liam Riley,” the other man responded in a strong Irish accent. He grasped the proffered hand then broke into a broad grin. “Amanda's mentioned you a time or two. She seems to think you're 'darling.'”

Richie shook his head in fond exasperation. Amanda's ability to assess people's characters could be erratic and was often hinged on how much excitement they brought to her life. Since he hadn't been on a crime spree with her recently—or ever—he decided that she was being generous, in her own way. “She says that about everyone.”

“Only the people she likes. That's a good enough endorsement for me.”

“Thank you for coming. Hell, thank you for believing me.” Richie'd called Liam and had done his best to explain the situation without the cab driver overhearing anything he shouldn't. In the end, he'd had to ask Liam to trust him, and had to hope that Henry wouldn't be angry that Richie had told his secret without permission.

“I'm not one to deny miracles, in whatever form they take,” Liam responded. He touched the white square of his clergy collar that peeked through the gap at the top of his jacket.

“No, I guess not,” Richie agreed. A man who had been Immortal himself for almost three hundred years and a priest for nearly all of that couldn't say what was or was not impossible in the world. Now that the threat assessment was over, Richie turned his attention to Henry. "Are you OK?" he asked. Henry's hair was still wet from his dunking in the river and he was hunched with cold despite the blanket around his shoulders, but his head was mercifully attached and his brown eyes were bright with life.

"I am," he answered. "As you can see, there's no permanent harm." He pushed to his feet and joined them, and Richie handed over the shoes and other accessories, holding back only the coat for himself until Liam could help him get a new one. “Your friend and I have been having quite a chat about the War of the American Rebellion,” Henry added. He sounded giddy, as only someone who'd found a peer among a crowd of children could. “It's fascinating to get an eye-witness perspective on the stories my father told me.”

“They call it the Revolutionary War here in this country we've both adopted,” Liam corrected, though without vitriol. “And I think we should continue this discussion over a drink. My church isn't far. What do you say?” Off their agreement, he stepped into the lead.

Henry waited until the priest was a few paces in front before he observed, “He's not carrying a sword.” A couple hours before, it might have been an accusation aimed at Richie. Now, it was merely a curiosity.

The city that had seemed so quiet the night before thrummed with activity. Lunchtime crowds filled the sidewalks and vehicles packed the streets. In the din of honking horns and pulsing bass, the waterfall of voices that pressed to be heard, Richie couldn't explain what Joe had told him: How Liam had put down his sword nearly two centuries before Richie’s birth, and how he refused to pick it back up, even if it cost of him his head. He wondered if that’s what had spurred Liam to bring up with the Revolutionary War with Henry.

“No, he's managed to find a different way.” Richie observed Liam's easy gait, how he strolled through the crowd without seeming to worry who might be out there. His collar would offer him some protection, spending most of his time on Holy Ground, more. “It works well enough for him.”

“But it's not for you?”

The light changed before they reached the corner. Liam had already crossed. Folding his hands, he stepped off to the side to wait. The distance was just far enough to put him on the edge of sensing range. His gait had been easy, but the way his eyes flicked through the throngs, searching for the Presence that dipped in and out of his awareness as the crowds jostled him and Richie toward and away from each other showed that fear still remained. 

Richie rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the prickling that warned him of danger and to give his hand something to do so it wouldn't reach for his sword. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm not good at staying out of the way. I gave it a try once.” He thought about how quickly, how desperately, he'd taken to the false Methos and his message of peace. And how that had ended. “The price was too high for me. Someday, it'll be too high for him, too. We don't get to live lives of peace.”

“That's a shame.” Henry looked thoughtful for a second, then added, “Decapitation isn't the most pleasant way to die.”

“Thanks,” Richie replied, letting the sarcasm drip freely. “Now I know what to look forward to.” As close as he'd come to losing his head on far-too-many occasions, he'd already given the subject a lot of thought. He wondered, if he asked, if Henry would tell him what those last seconds were actually like. He wondered if he wanted to know.

Henry shrugged, apologetically. “It is still preferable to many others, such as being burned to death. Or dying from a perforated intestine. On that topic: I'll need to check in with the police tomorrow and update them on what we know about the explosion.”

“I'll come with you,” Richie said, surprising himself with the announcement. The signal changed and he and Henry joined the surge of people in the crosswalk. Liam picked up his lead, careful now to stay inside sensing range as he took them down the next block. 

“I thought you wanted to avoid police scrutiny? What changed? Does it have something to do with your Watcher?”

Richie shook his head. “Sort of. Not exactly. I mean, she'd definitely make a better witness. As long as she doesn't mention what I am, or who she works for, there's nothing in her Oath to keep her from talking about what she saw.”

“And your other reason?”

Trust Henry to see that what Richie showed him wasn't all there was to see. The corner of Richie's mouth quirked up in a grin as he admitted, “Trouble has a way of finding me, no matter how good a job I think I'm doing staying away from her. I figure, the faster we get this round resolved, the faster I can go back to trying to live my life before she finds me again.”

“If it makes it easier, one of the detectives on the case is a woman I've trusted with my own secret. She would understand...almost none of yours, come to think of it. Perhaps if you stuck to the bare minimum, she would be willing to minimize your role in the investigation.”

Liam chose that moment to drop back and insinuate himself between the two men. “Come along, gentlemen. Let's try to get there before we all die of old age.”

Since stating the obvious would probably play right into Liam's point, Richie decided that the only thing he could do was walk faster.


	6. Epilogue

They only left the rectory after Abe called in a panic to find out where Henry was. “You weren't at home. Your work said you'd called in sick. You didn't leave a note.”

“I'm fine, Abe,” Henry assured him. “Richie and I have merely had a bit of an adventure. I'll tell you about it later.”

At least, that's what Richie thought Henry meant to say. What came out had less syntax and more vowels. From his seat at the rectory's kitchen table, Richie had no problem hearing Abe yell, “Are you drunk!?”

Henry let out a loud guffaw, as if being drunk was a proud accomplishment. “Quite.” He reached for the bottle of whisky in the middle of the table to refill his glass, and missed. His hand flapped into the empty air for a moment and then hit the table hard.

Pulling the bottle out of reach, Liam suggested, “I think it's time to stop now.” He was also drunk, though much more restrained about it than Henry was. “There'll be plenty of time for another round later. _Plenty_ of time.”

“Where are you? I'll come pick you up,” Abe asked. He sounded like the father preparing to reprimand his teenage son.

“Yes, thank you, Abe. That would be a good idea,” Henry might have said.

Since Henry could barely speak, Liam took the phone and explained how to find his church. It took him longer to assure Abe that Henry was, indeed, fine, that he'd only had a few more surprises in his day than a man of his age was used to.

The last left Abe speechless for a long second before he roared out, “Henry!”

Richie, finding the whole conversation hilarious in its backwardness, called out, “We'll be here. I promise not to kill him. Again,” then broke down into the laughter he'd been holding in all day as Abe started to sputter.

* * *

The next evening, Richie brought all the borrowed clothes, now cleaned and folded, back. The sign on the antique store's door still read 'open,' when he arrived, despite the late evening darkness that had closed in over the city. Henry switched it to 'closed' before the bell finished tinkling and ushered Richie inside.

Abe was standing behind the counter. He looked up when Richie entered and, on seeing who it was, scowled and deliberately turned his attention to counting out the register. Richie wondered how much Henry had told him about what had happened. More importantly, how much Henry'd told him about _why_ it had happened that way.

Deciding not to worry about it until he had to, Richie greeted them both, but quickly found his attention diverted. He hadn't been in an antique store since he'd sold Tessa's after she died, and seeing this space with its loving displays of old housewares, statuary, and furniture brought a wave of nostalgia and longing that choked him up. He'd never developed the taste for antiques in his own life—save for those people who qualified in their own way—so he was surprised by the strength of his desire to touch everything and to see how much he could still remember about its style and history. He drifted first to a shelf of glassware and then to a table that held silver tea and coffee services.

“They're beautiful, aren't they?” Henry commented. “With as much coffee as everyone consumes these days, I find it ironic that few people have any appreciation for the presentation of the beverage. Paper cups and plastic lids lack panache. When was the last time someone brought you coffee on a silver salver and served it in a hand-painted china cup?”

“It's been awhile,” Richie agreed. The kinds of high class restaurants Mac had taken him to when they lived in Paris meant that he'd at least had the experience. “I may not be the most representative member of my generation on that topic, though.” The wistfulness in Henry's tone kept him from adding that he preferred the paper cups because he could throw them out when he was done.

“Having met one of your friends, I'm inclined to agree.” Henry hesitated, then lowering his voice so only Richie could hear him, he asked, “He is your friend? You're not going to...fight...him?”

Richie picked up a silver coffee creamer and turned it over, idly seeking out the maker's mark. He set it down again without any recollection of what he'd seen. “Not today. Someday...I might have to.” _If we both live long enough._ Clearing his throat, he sought for a better topic before he got sucked into trying to justify something as illogical as the Game to someone as logical as Henry. “By the way, Joe called earlier. His group captured our guy and got him to fess up. They found my Watcher. She's safe.”

Henry nodded as if he'd expected to hear nothing else. “And you?”

“Liam's going to let me stay at the church until the insurance settlement comes through. After that, I think I'll probably set up shop again. I've spent a lot of time tending bar and fixing bikes. I'd like to see if I can do some good with my other skills.” He gave a self-deprecating half-shrug. “Without getting blown up for trying.” A crystal table lamp caught his attention and he went over to get a closer look at it, only vaguely aware that he was drifting toward the register. “Liam also wanted me to tell you that you're welcome to come around the rectory whenever you want. He said it would be fun to reminisce with someone who could remember the old peddlers' cries.”

“Ah, yes. Poor Jack and Colly Molly Puffle. I never thought I'd miss hearing those. Tell him I would be delighted. I believe I owe the Father a bottle of whisky.”

“The Father?” Abe asked, looking up from his counting in surprise. “You're talking about the priest you were with last night? Have you decided to take up religion?”

“Yes, and hardly,” Henry answered.

“He's only found someone to play with who's his age,” Richie explained. It was fun to tease Henry. Possibly, it was more fun that he _could_ tease Henry. “And they're both from the same part of the world, though one of them being Irish and the other English could get interesting.”

Abe's brows shot up; the wad of bills that he'd been counting out sagged, forgotten, in his hand. “Another immortal?”

“There are actually quite a lot of us.” Richie offered Abe a conciliatory smile. He wanted to be friends with both the Morgan men, if he could. “I'm sorry that I got him involved in all this.” He waved down the length of his body, meaning by extension the craziness that was his life. “But I can't tell you how lucky I was to have someone who could help me through the latest round.”

The apology melted Abe's disapproval. “Henry's a good person to have on your side,” he said. “And I don't think you could have kept him _uninvolved_. He can be a little stubborn about helping people.” He threw a small smile at his father in acknowledgment that flaws and strengths were often the same thing. Turning his attention back to Richie, he said, “You know anything about antiques?”

Richie had let his eye get pulled to a jewelry display inside the glass cabinet that the register rested on. One of the bracelets looked like a piece Ceirdwyn would favor. A couple others were ones that Tessa would have liked. “I worked in an antique store for a while,” he admitted, his fondness for that time coloring his voice. “A few things managed to sink in.”

“Swing around some time and we can trade stories. Henry tells me you know something about swords. I have a few pieces in the back you might be interested in.” Abe slipped the money into the bank envelope, then stuck his hand out to shake.

Richie took it. “It'll be fun to see what I still remember.” The air cleared with Abe, he turned back to Henry. “Anyway, what's going on with the case? I thought you were going to call me to come in.”

Henry rubbed his eyebrow in embarrassment. “It seems the police won't need your involvement at all.”

“They won't?”

“Nor will they need the young lady. They solved the case on their own. They even got a confession.”

“From who?” Richie asked. He tried to imagine which of his neighbors might have broken their silence. More importantly, which neighbor might have had anything useful to say. Since he doubted that anyone else came back from the dead, that meant it had to be one of the people who had made it out before the explosion. And suddenly he knew. His own warning of trouble had been the man running down the stairs, ordering everyone to get out of the building. Warning. He slapped his head. “I saw him! I should have figured out the connection.” Dying really did make him stupid.

“It's now a moot point because he turned himself in. It turns out that he was stockpiling explosives in his apartment for some future experiment in domestic terrorism and he had an unrelated cooking accident that started a fire. Instead of trying to douse the fire, he panicked.”

Richie blinked, trying to make sense of what had happened. “Seventeen people are dead because some idiot didn't know how to cook?”

“I'd say that seventeen people are dead because some idiot was planning to do a great deal more harm than that. The loss of life is still a tragedy. The only good from this is that he will be spending the rest of his own life in prison, which means he cannot attempt anything like this again.”

“I suppose that's something.” Richie shook his head and blew out a long breath. It was a small something, all the potential lives saved against the seventeen who had really died. Eighteen, technically, though being inconvenienced for a few days was no consolation for those who wouldn't be coming back. Remembering why he was there, Richie set the plastic bag of clothes on the counter. “Thank you again for these. I mean it.” He was about to say that Henry had no idea how difficult it was to sneak across town naked, until he realized that Henry was the one person who did.

The clothes weren't all. Feeling slightly embarrassed, Richie dug the ten out of his pocket and handed it over. He'd gone back to his building that morning to search once more for the lockbox, and had found it exactly where it was supposed to be. In the darkness and distress, his fingers must have missed it by millimeters. “Please give this to the woman who has locker six. I'd thank her myself, but...” Richie shrugged. Even if he could explain how he'd come into possession of the woman's money, she'd never know what a difference that ten dollars had made to him.

With a nod of understanding, Henry took the money. “I'll tell her I found it on the floor. Also, my associate, Lucas, was asking about you.”

Richie cringed. “Dead-me or alive-me?”

“Both, as it happens, though I don't believe he's made the connection between the two.”

“What did you tell him?”

“In regards to your corpse: I explained that your family denied autopsy on religious grounds and that you'd been sent straight over to the mortuary for cremation. The police weren't happy about that, but there's not much they can do.”

“Good thinking,” Richie complimented, while making a mental note to start carrying some kind of card in his wallet that expressly denied any kind of autopsy or organ donation. A denial of cremation would also be a good idea. “What was he asking about alive me?”

“Something about a badly dressed intern who was using our coffee machine? I had no idea that you two had run into each other. He didn't know your name, but I told him I had heard that one of the interns washed out.”

Yes, he was definitely lucky to have had Henry helping him out. Who knew what might have happened had Lucas been the one standing at the table when Richie woke up. “Do you think he believed you?”

Eyes narrowed, Henry contemplated the question for a long moment before concluding: “With Lucas, it's always difficult to know what he's going to believe. I would suggest, however, that you try not to make any return visits to my morgue.”

Richie snorted. “Believe me, once every couple of decades is my limit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to htbthomas (a.k.a. ID Pam) for the cheerleading, beta reading, and, in the end, the flat out rewriting of the bits I couldn’t do on my own. Not many people are willing to learn a whole new canon just to encourage a crossover. Any remaining mistakes, yadda yadda.
> 
>  _Highlander: the Series_ episodes specifically referenced in this story include:
> 
> "The Darkness" - 2x04  
> "An Eye for an Eye" - 2x05  
> "Under Color of Authority" - 2x13  
> "Prodigal Son" - 2x20  
> "Take Back the Night" - 3x17  
> "The End of Innocence" - 5x03  
> "The Messenger" - 5x10
> 
> All episodes are available on YouTube and Hulu.
> 
> The _Highlander: the Raven_ episode "War and Peace" (1x21) is also referenced. This is available on Hulu.


End file.
